


Mon roi

by EternalFangirl



Series: Henry Plantagenet is Mine Series [2]
Category: Henry V - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: F/M, Hand Job, Learning to please, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after their wedding night, Catherine wakes up first and decides to study her sleeping husband.</p><p>What she forgets is that soldier kings are light sleepers, and so is the Star of England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon roi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [FoolofaTook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoolofaTook/gifts).



> Sequel to Je t'aime, but can be read as a stand-alone.

Catherine was assaulted by a myriad of foreign sensations as soon as she woke up.

The sun was beating against her closed eyelids, which was strange—her windows faced south. The sheets beneath her body were too soft, and something... Catherine's eyes snapped open as she realized that she was sleeping naked as the day she was born.

There was also someone in the bed with her.

A muscular arm lay over her waist, the fingers--long, slender, elegant--tickling her belly. She could hear the soft, deep breath of a sleeping man behind her, and wisps of her hair blew across her eyes with each exhalation.

Harry.

She squirmed as she remembered the night before, all the sinful things she had done... Oh heavens, who was that wanton concubine who had defied propriety so easily?

Her already pink face turned red as Henry used the arm around her waist to pull her back against him, murmuring in his sleep a little. Her back was flush against his front, and Catherine gasped a little.

He was asleep. And not wearing a stitch.

Catherine knew she should move away. Girls of good families did not loiter abed when the sun was up. Her husband sleeping in her chambers instead of his own was scandalous enough, but if they stayed abed any longer tales would start making the rounds in court. She should have moved, but she did not. After all, her husband was asleep, and now was the time for her to satisfy her curiosity about him. He would never know.

Carefully so as to not wake the king, Catherine turned in her place to watch him. He did not snore, which was strange. Her father's snores could usually be heard across the wing.

His nose was almost touching hers, a small frown marring his features. Even in repose her king was so burdened. Following her instincts just as he had told her to, she reached up and smoothed the lines on his forehead with her index finger. He turned his head a little, still asleep, and nuzzled her palm. It tickled. She removed her hand on instinct, though she regretted it a second later. Being nothing but an industrious student, she ran her index finger along the vein protruding from his neck—a prominent cord of muscle she suddenly had the urge to lick. Equal parts scandalized and intrigued by the idea of licking her husband, Kate settled her internal debate using his own words to her the night before.

Listen to your heart, and do not be afraid.

Like a good Christian wife, Catherine bowed to the words of her husband. She licked the vein protruding from the side of his neck. She could feel his skin, cool and dry, underneath her tongue… the reassuring thudding of his lifeblood beneath it. He smelled wonderful, which was strange, for he had not attended his toilette yet. But she could smell—a unique musky smell combined with a whiff of leather.

Hal inhaled sharply—she paused—only to turn over to lie on his back.

Her king was a hearty sleeper. Just as well.

She tried to remember what else he had done to her, just so she could replicate it. Her memories of last night were jumbled at places and crystal clear in others, but she had good instincts. And she hath good leave. Rising up on one elbow so that she was facing her new husband, Catherine marveled at the differences between them—his torso was lean, with muscles so well defined she was absolutely certain she could cut her fingers on those ribs if she wasn’t careful. 

She reached out and touched one. Harry’s breathing stuttered for a second, then resumed again. She traced the rib for a while, marveling at the hidden hardness of her lean and strong husband. She moved to his protruding hipbones, running her palm along it, removing the blankets in the process. Harry squirmed, and turned his head to face away from her.

He twitched below. In his secret place.

Catherine shivered and removed her hand as if she had been burned. But he was asleep. He wasn’t supposed to want to bed her when he was asleep, was he? She turned her head, red in the face, and bit her lip. Was he awake?

She peeked back at his face—or however much of it she could see. He was still facing away from her. He didn’t look to be awake… she felt a surge of power as she realized she was making her husband desire her while he was asleep. Her eyes caressed his face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the thin but delicious lips, framed with that beard that had tickled her so last night.

Then, without her permission, her eyes travelled down again. She gasped. He was hardening in front of her eyes. She was so mesmerized by the foreign scene that she only realized she had touched him when she felt his skin against her palm. She had grabbed him… there.

What was she doing? She was only going to look at him, was that not the plan? Why did she keep touching him? It felt nice, though—different, in a good way. For all the hardness of his… that, the skin was soft, velvety. It felt like hard iron in a velvet glove.

He groaned in his throat. Her hand jerked and moved away on instinct, but before she could think of checking whether or not she had awoken him, the big oak door to their bedroom opened, and a gaggle of maids silently made their way in—only to freeze when they realized they were interrupting something.

Catherine was absolutely certain she had never been more embarrassed in her life. The sudden noise had made Harry restless, for he drew up his knee, hiding his nude state. The blankets she had pushed away were now pooled on his groin, but it was glaringly obvious he wore nothing at all. Catherine sent up a silent prayer in thanks for the thick blankets that protected her own modesty.

The maids, infuriating wenches that they were, giggled.

“Leave.” The soft, gentle, English voice was now gravelly.

Catherine froze completely. He was awake. How long had he been so? Had he just woken up? Did he know she had been mapping his body with her hands? Dear lord, did he know she had touched him… there? Oh, if she could find a convenient fire pit to fall into, so that she might be spared the shame!

The maids moved in unison as if they had been struck by lightning, backing towards the door and disappearing through it. The heavy doors thudded shut. Catherine kept staring at them, unwilling to turn to her husband.

“Catherine?”

Catherine was certain if she turned anymore red she would certainly be a very unflattering shade of purple.

“Will you continue your… exploration, shall we say? S’il vous plait?”

“Non,” she replied, still staring at the doors. They were exceptionally interesting doors. What concoction, pray, did carpenters use to make wood shine so?

“Wife?” His voice was amused. “They are gone. You could continue, if you wished to.”

They were heavy doors. Very heavy. And hard, and strong, but soft on the outside… Stop that!

“What time was your majesty stop sleeping?”

Henry sifted through the broken English and latched onto her meaning. He considered it a Herculean task with his manhood still throbbing. “Kings never sleep heartily, my queen. I have slept in too many ditches and underneath too many trees to ever sleep too well. Sleeping too well in a war can get you dead.” He sighed. “I woke up when you turned.”

“You did not tell,” Catherine accused. “I was…”

“—Making me the luckiest and happiest man to awake this morn,” Harry interrupted with a smile. “I could not stop—or otherwise hinder your education.” He waited for her comeback. “Catherine? Will you look at me now?”

She turned. Slowly. Her gaze was fixed on one nipple. “You… like this?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “I liked it very much. I wish you would continue.”

Her eyes darted to his before sliding down his clavicle once more. “What could you have me do, my lord?”

He smiled at her almost-correct sentence. “Whatever you want.”

So she leant forward and licked his nipple.

Harry almost darted off the bed from the shock of it, scaring his wife. She started to move back, to stop, then froze when he groaned deep in his throat, his head turning to the side. Catherine couldn’t stop her wicked grin. So it did feel the same to men! She suddenly realized this was the only male body she was ever going to get complete access to, and Harry did, after all, want her to continue. So she did.

Harry said a broken jumble of words when she reached over his chest to latch onto his other nipple, suckling like a babe. His hands lifted off the bed, but afore they reached her, he changed course and clutched the linen instead. His eyes fluttered shut, his head still thrown back.

The fact that he was no longer looking at her made her bolder, and she took complete advantage by touching as much of his torso as she could. She traced her index finger down the middle of his chest, neatly splitting his body in two. Her courage, however, seemed to leave her when she reached his navel. She got no further, but Harry did not complain.

Instead, he simply stayed on the bed, his hands fisted in the linen, his eyes closed, and his head thrown back. Occasionally, he made some primitive, guttural sounds in his throat, or bit his lip to keep silent. He trusted her with his body, and that said a lot to her. He had given up his body to her for the present, knowing she would wish to explore. He did not demand. He simply gave.

Who was she to shy away from something freely given in love?

“Harry?”

He made a strangled noise of acknowledgement. 

Catherine took a deep breath. Her hand slid a little below his navel, and Harry sucked in a breath. “Teach me.”

Harry groaned and reached blindly for her hand. “You do not have to…” he said as he grasped her hand.

“Oui. I know.”

“Then why…?”

“I want this,” she replied simply. “To see you like this.”

He took her hand then, and brought it to his lips, surprising her. His tongue—his wicked, wicked tongue—slipped out and licked her index finger. Then he continued to give that same treatment to all her fingers.

Catherine’s eyes were fixed on his. She felt like she was drowning in them, drowning in the burning lust she could see there. For her. It was all for her.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her pinky finger, then slid her hand down his body himelf. Catherine sat up cross-legged at his side, facing her beautiful husband. She wanted to watch. She wanted to see his pleasure, and never forget that she could do this to him—that she could bring the mightiest man in three countries to such a heightened state.

Her eyes finally left his when her hand touched his… that. His manhood was indeed a texture she had never felt before, and she marveled at the hardness as he wrapped her fingers around himself. Recognizing what he wanted to do, she adjusted her grip a little.

“Oh, dear God!” Harry moaned, a delicious shudder moving through him. “Ah—move, my lady,” he continued. “Move your hand like… hmmm, this.”

The instruction was accompanied by a demonstration, as Harry moved his closed fist up and down, taking her wrapped hand along. He seemed to know what he was doing, even if she wasn’t, and she realized that all he needed was to have her pump her fist over his rod. That seemed strange, until she realized that her hand was simply taking the place of her secret canal in the act of love-making. It was similar to how his fingers had pierced her last night.

She blushed red, excited by the prospect of pleasing her husband, but scandalized at the manner. Cursing her inability to control what Harry had once called her ’maidenly blushes’, she resolutely refused to shirk away for the sake of propriety.

Harry’s eyes were fluttering a little, his hands going slack atop hers. He was drowning in the pleasure she was bringing him, and that made her brazen and bold. Sweat was starting to pool in the enticing dips of his chest, and drip down to the bedding not being crushed in two long-fingered hands. He was not moving overmuch, so she didn’t understand why he was so sweaty. Perhaps the strain of not moving and holding still was the culprit.

But hadn’t she thrashed about on his fingers last night? Then why wouldn’t he move? Perhaps she should try something more than this. What had she liked? Trying to remember more than the divine sensations of last night, Catherine realized she had liked it when he had moved his fingers in her. So perhaps she should stroke him a bit differently.

She wanted to make him writhe. 

Harry moaned deliciously when Catherine twisted her hand a little on the next stroke, proving her hypothesis. She smirked uncharacteristically when he arched up into her hands, moaning her name brokenly with his English tongue.

It was possibly not very Christian of her.

A bead of a clear liquid leaked onto her hand, drawing her attention. She looked at it curiously, intrigued, and decided to investigate. She used the thumb of her unoccupied hand over the bead, smearing it, learning it.

Unexpectedly, Harry jerked completely, sending the head of his manhood into the palm of her hand, which made him moan. So the head of the cock was sensitive… Armed with the this knowledge, Catherine continued to rub her fist up and down the shaft while she rubbed her palm—aided by the clear liquid—over the head. Harry’s control snapped, and his hips started to move in a mockery of love-making. His words—if the sounds he was making were indeed words—were equal parts curses and prayers. He said her name—or began to—twice, but the end of the name always trailed off as she twisted one palm and rotated the other.

Catherine realized that his balls were hitting her with every synchronized thrust, and she let go of the top of his penis to investigate the bottom. They felt like stones wrapped tightly together in satin, and were possibly another one of her husband’s pleasure. When she ran her hands down the skin between the two stones, he shifted and groaned, squirming.

Curiously, her husband’s pleasure had robbed him of all speech, though he was making several sounds that were far more educational. They did not need words anyway, for they both knew different words to say the same thing, and pleasure had a language of grunts and moans.

Catherine’s arm was starting to ache from all the rubbing and stroking of his shaft. But she was mesmerized by the pure, unadulterated pleasure on Harry’s face. On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed his lips.

Harry kissed her like a man possessed, as if he were drowning and she was his only salvation. Several words were murmured against her lips when she broke for air, but she did not think they were for her specifically. Besides, she still didn’t know what fuck meant. She would ask him soon.

“I—” Harry began, then panted out a curse. “I am about to finish, love. Oh, God!”

Catherine sat up again, unwilling to miss the moment. She alternated one of her hands between his balls—so hard and tight—and the very tip of his manhood.

“Hard—harder, Kate! Grip me hard!” His back arched, his toes curled in the discarded quilt, the king of England threw his head back, a long bead of sweat dripping off it and onto his pillow. His eyes were shut tight, one hand fisted in the covers, the other gripping her knee beside his hip. He was, in short, the very image of debauchery, and so dear to Kate in this moment she would kill anyone who interfered.

Sealing the deal of her ownership over him, Catherine leaned over and kissed the top of his penis in an open-mouthed kiss. Harry stilled the thrusting of his hips, his eyes snapping wide open. She took the entire tip past her lips, reveling in the musky scent and foreign taste.

Harry made a delicious sound that very much sounded like a growl.

Just as she sat up straight again, his eyes rolled back in his head and he finished with a shout. It was a thing of beauty—his chest working like a bellows as his manhood twitched violently, ropes of his seed flying off and staining the linen. A drop or too landed on Catherine’s thighs, for they were in too close proximity. She neither felt it nor saw it. She had eyes only for her husband, who was now spent, and relaxing slowly. His hands unclenched, his toes uncurled, and he opened his eyes.

There was a well of love in the look, gratitude and something akin to companionship in them. He looked at her as if they were the only people in the world, as if people of three countries did not depend on him. In that moment, he was just a man. Just Harry of England, speechless with pleasure. And there was something else in his eyes too.

They were hazy with pleasure. And she had done that.

Giddy with success, she started to scramble off the bed to fetch the washcloth and clean him as he had done last night. His voice, throaty and hoarse from his exertions, stopped her.

“Where are you going, my lady? Allow me to return the favour.”

Catherine smiled at the wall as his graceful fingers gripped her hips from behind and swung her back to the bed.


End file.
